Bill carried Jane up the five granite steps of their front porch into the foyer, where nearly everything was as they had left it that morning in April. Martin’s bucket of baseballs, his glove and catcher’s equipment, his new baseball cleats and Reebok sneakers, all remained untouched. In the kitchen, Martin’s Red Sox backpack still hung a few feet from his now-famous heart-covered peace poster. Easter baskets remained on Martin’s desk and on the floor of Henry’s room, long after they should have been stowed away.
Beautiful piece on the family that lost their boy in the marathon bombing.
You don’t think in depression that you’ve put on a grey veil and are seeing the world through the haze of a bad mood. You think that the veil has been taken away, the veil of happiness, and that now you’re seeing truly.